


Smudging Ink

by AdurnaSkulblaka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Tattoo Artist Dean, Tattooed Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:17:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdurnaSkulblaka/pseuds/AdurnaSkulblaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Castiel,” he replies. He offers Dean his hand, which he shakes with an amused smile.</p><p>When their hands part again, Dean claps his own together, chair sliding back a little as he leans that way. “So, what can I do for you?”</p><p>“I was hoping to expand an existing tattoo,” he says simply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smudging Ink

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to my friend for giving me advice and reading this while it was in its first stages!

The parlour is bright and open, cheerful and familiar. The floor is a nice brown wood underfoot, shining brightly from its last cleaning job. Posters of bands he doesn’t recognise litter the walls, while music that must be from one of them plays from overhead. It’s slow, easy, a beat that he would feel rattling in his chest if it was turned up all the way, but for now it’s just background noise.

The doorbell rings as Castiel enters, signalling his arrival. A voice calls “I’ll be there in a sec!” from behind a door that’s half hidden by the desk. Castiel assumes it leads to the office side of things; he knows from experience that the actual tattooing area is the door opposite the entrance. 

He stands just in front of the desk, fingertips skimming across the grainy wood as he waits. More posters, ones that seem to be faded, are pinned to the front of it, peeling and curling at the corners where the pins have torn through the paper. It’s a little sad; Castiel almost wants to get his hands on it and fix it. 

In a complete contrast to the state of the posters, the parlour itself is of a high standard, despite being a small business. When he came here before, Castiel had no issues with his previous tattoo or the employees. It’s that very fact that’s drawn him back here. 

The creak of a door catches his attention and pulls it back towards the desk, and the man that appears holds it. He’s truly gorgeous; his jaw is angular, stubble dotting it around his boyish smile; there’s a smattering of freckles beneath the rims of his stylishly thick-framed glasses. White teeth flash at him as he grins. He drops onto a wheelie stool, the plastic squeaking slightly in protest as he rolls a little from the movement. 

“Hi, I’m Dean.” 

His voice is gruff, a nice kind of growl. It makes something warm slither into Castiel’s stomach. 

“Castiel,” he replies. He offers Dean his hand, which he shakes with an amused smile. 

When their hands part again, Dean claps his own together, chair sliding back a little as he leans that way. “So, what can I do for you?” 

“I was hoping to expand an existing tattoo,” he says simply. 

Castiel’s never been too big on tattoos, but he does have one - technically two. It was nothing more than an idle thought at first, an appreciation for the idea of wings and his namesake: Castiel, the Angel of Thursday. When the idea grew, Castiel decided he’d go ahead with it, and now he has a sprawling pair of wings across his back with a second below the first that curves around his waist. He still remembers the artist - a woman with red hair, a cheeky smile, and a penchant for speaking in references that he didn’t (and still doesn’t) understand. 

“Awesome!” Dean grins as he stands up, appearing to look for something amongst the papers on the desk, although Castiel isn’t quite sure that he knows what it is. “Did you come here for the first one?” 

“Yes.” 

“D’you remember who did your ink?” 

He shrugs. “She had red hair.” 

“That’ll be Charlie.” Dean grins and, in a clearly practiced move, plants his hands on the desk and hops over it; his boots hit the tiled floor with a slap. “You wanna come through to the back? I can take a look and see what we can do for designs.” 

The back room is also how Castiel remembers it. It’s small, with a sliding screen door to part it from the entrance to the parlour. Rather than being hidden behind posters, the walls in here are a mixture of vinyl records and tattoo designs, both sketched on paper and photographs of ones that are on skin. The floor is covered in a chessboard pattern, the wall behind its decorations made up of panels of fading yellow wood. 

There’s a scrape as the door is pulled into place, giving them some privacy, although if anyone were to peer through the frosted glass they’d be able to see the blurred shapes of people inside. 

Dean moves over to a desk on the left, shifting aside the mess of paper there to perch on the edge. “Alright, so can you show me the original tattoo?” 

“Of course.” Castiel steps over to the side of the bench, unclipping a couple of the buttons on his shirt and simply pulling it over his head the rest of the way. 

He doesn’t miss the appreciative look Dean gives him as his head pops back out from underneath the shirt. It turns frightened for a second as his eyes meet Castiel’s, like a deer trapped in the headlights of a car, only he’s been caught looking at another man. Castiel briefly wonders if Dean has a problem with that, but when his gaze skips around before moving back to Castiel’s warily, he realises that he’s more afraid of the fact that he might be rejected or even shouted at. 

Castiel knows the feeling. 

Having Dean’s eyes on him, however, had made him feel warm in all the right ways. Deliberately, Castiel glances him up and down, making it obvious that he’s doing so; he hopes that it will reassure Dean - invite him, even - and there’s the bonus of getting a good glimpse of him. 

Dean relaxes subtly, a smile pulling up the corners of his lips. His eyes twinkle behind his glasses, interest and acceptance there. 

With that, Castiel turns his back to Dean, displaying the full tattoo to him. His stomach twists into knots with the knowledge that Dean’s eyes are on him, especially since he’s given him nonverbal permission to let them wander, too. 

Dean gives a low whistle. “Yep, that’s Charlie’s work alright.” 

“How can you tell?” 

“Her stuff’s always really intricate. It’s beautiful. Like here…” A fingertip brushes across a spot on his back. Castiel shivers. “Her feathers are always delicate but strong, if that makes sense. Dainty lookin’, but they could probably hold you up if they were actually wings.” 

“That’s what caught my eye with her designs,” he admits. “The fact that they look realistic - or as realistic as possible when the instruments are skin and ink.” 

Dean laughs; the sound is a full one, from deep within his chest. “Aw, man, I like you.” 

Castiel tries not to read into that. He doesn’t want to assume. “What are your designs like?” 

His answer is, at first, just a thoughtful humming sound, which evolves into speech. “I’ve been told it’s bolder and broader. The sorta thing you can’t miss.” 

Castiel feels Dean’s finger slide away, but it lingers on his skin, trailing as he crosses in front of him, heading for the wall of photographs. He considers it for a moment before plucking one down to bring over and offer to him. “Take a look. This is my favourite I’ve done.” 

The image displays a man with longer hair, and he seems to have a hint of Dean’s features about him, but it’s clearly an old photo; Castiel can see a calendar in the background, in the place of the current one in this room, and it’s from a few years ago. He’s beaming at the camera as the picture’s taken. He’s also shirtless so the healed tattoo over his heart is visible: a star encased in a ring of fire, all in black. 

“That’s my brother,” Dean adds, lips pulling up into a fond smile. “Probably shouldn’t say this, but I was extra careful with his tat.” 

“No, that’s fair of you.” Castiel hands the photo back. “I like your style.” 

“As sweet as that is, I’m gonna see if I can book you a slot with Charlie again since she did the original. I don’t wanna screw it up.” He returns the picture to its rightful place on what Castiel decides must be the Wall of Fame before turning back to him. “What I _am_ gonna do, if you’ll let me, is try out some stuff with just a pen so I can take some photos and give her ideas of what you want. Is that alright?” 

Castiel shrugs. “Go ahead.” 

“Alright, take a seat and let’s get started.” 

As Dean roots around the little desk, Castiel perches on the leather of the bed, pressing his palms to its surface. His heart thuds with excitement rather than nerves as Dean approaches again and, without hesitation, shuffles between Castiel’s legs to get free access to his shoulders. 

“So, anything in particular you had in mind?” Dean’s voice has softened, less of a cheerful tone and more of an intimate murmur. 

“I liked the idea of more feathers coming off of the wings,” he replies. He lifts a hand, tracing a triangle shape over one shoulder. “It might mean extending the wings too, though, which I would rather not do. I like them how they are now.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Dean nudges Castiel’s hand aside so he can carefully begin drawing; Castiel turns his head, watching as a feather begins to take shape on his skin. 

He’s all too aware of the puff of Dean’s breath that he can feel, as well as his proximity. He knows that he’s not the only one affected by it - or, at least, he hopes he’s reading the signs correctly, as he’s including the silent little conversation from earlier. 

Dean draws a delicate feather as a test, its form curled as it appears to tumble down Castiel’s skin. He shifts closer, arm brushing across Castiel’s chest. The nib of the pen streaks down Castiel’s arm with his twitch. 

“Shit,” Dean mutters. He raises his free hand, licks his thumb, and rubs across the line of ink to try and rub it away. 

Castiel’s gaze won’t leave his mouth. He wants to see that slip of a tongue again, wants to actually feel it rather than just catch a glimpse. The thought of new tattoos is the last thing on his mind now. 

He doesn’t actually know who moves first. 

Maybe Dean saw him staring, liked what he found, and decided he’d plant his lips on Castiel’s. Perhaps he simply leaned forward to find Dean’s mouth without realising. Either way, Castiel closes his eyes and melts into the kiss, lips parting almost instantly so he can snatch a taste of Dean. 

Someone groans in relief; he doesn’t know who. All he knows is that there’s a clatter as the pen falls somewhere, the sound of it quickly hidden by the smacks of kissing and huffed breaths. Dean moves away briefly to put his glasses down on a safe surface before quickly returning, fitting himself into the V of Castiel’s legs neatly. Castiel feels fingers in his hair, combing through the strands, and he decides he likes the feeling. 

Castiel can still taste Dean when he moves his lips away, pressing them along his jaw instead. His stubble and the kissing leaves his lips tingling. They continue down his throat as Dean tips his head back, inviting him to continue- 

Until he reaches the annoying neckline of his shirt. Castiel makes a quiet, frustrated sound, and remedies the problem by sticking his hands under the hem of the shirt and pulling it up and over Dean’s head. He doesn’t have an issue with it; he chases Castiel’s lips again as soon as he’s free of the restriction. 

Castiel pauses, a hand on Dean’s shoulder turning firm as he tilts his head, gaze down at his chest not out of lust but out of curiosity. 

“You have the same tattoo as your brother?” 

Dean groans, forehead dropping to Castiel’s unpenned shoulder. “Way to start killin’ the mood. Talkin’ about my brother doesn’t exactly get me hot and bothered, Cas.” 

He chuckles quietly, pressing his lips to the corner of Dean’s jaw. “Apologies. It caught my attention.” 

“We can talk later.” Dean has apparently decided to take advantage of his position, as Castiel can feel him mouthing at the skin under his lips. His fingers dig into Dean’s side and shoulder lightly as an appreciative groan escapes him. He must be aiming to leave marks judging by the tugs of teeth, Castiel thinks. 

It’s only when Castiel hooks a leg around his waist to tug him closer that Dean breaks away again. Castiel makes a noise of complaint - a little growl - until he realises that Dean’s shoves aren’t to push him away but to make him get horizontal on the padded bench, so he scrambles backwards while leaving room for Dean to plant himself between his legs again. 

The benefits of this position are immediately obvious. As Dean’s mouth meets his again, he fits their hips together, beginning a slow, delicious grind that makes Castiel gasp. He feels Dean’s grin against his lips as he swallows the following groan. 

They fall into an easy rhythm of rolling hips and presses of mouths, the gasps of their breaths mingling with the music still being pumped into the parlour to create a soundtrack. Castiel’s lips are becoming sore from the treatment, but he can’t bring himself to move them away from Dean, no matter what part of his body they’re on, be it jaw, neck, or mouth. 

Dean huffs against his throat in the midst of adding another mark to the steadily growing number. “Pants,” he mutters, mostly to himself. He pushes up onto one hand, reaching down with the other to unbuckle his belt. Castiel follows suit, needing some relief of the uncomfortable pressure in his jeans. 

Dean doesn’t wait for them to undress any further, and Castiel doesn’t blame him; his skin is crawling with the need he feels, so much stronger than he has felt for any one human being in months. It feels unbelievably _good_ to have another body against his to seek friction from instead of his own hand. Even just this is enough to have Castiel’s blood singing in his veins. 

Dean’s breathing has become laboured against his shoulder, the rhythm of his hips failing slightly now. Castiel picks it up in his place, grasping at his back, somehow finding purchase on his sweat-damp skin. 

A few more quick rolls of hips is all it takes for it to be over. Dean tucks his face into Castiel’s neck and groans, quiet and broken; he feels wetness on his hip through the fabric of Dean’s boxers; his own pleasure crests and then falls as it rushes through him. 

Coming down from the high is a harsh return to reality. Castiel blinks up at the ceiling, only noticing that he’s been combing his fingers through Dean’s hair when he feels him shift on top of him, breaking the contact between their sticky skin. He lets his hand drop to the leather with a thud. 

Dean’s watching him warily, although he’s squinting, too. It’s a little difficult to take him seriously when his cheeks are still flushed and his lips are kiss-swollen. “That was…” 

“Enjoyable,” Castiel finishes. He sits up, peeling his back away from the grip of the bench with a wince. 

“And a surprise,” Dean adds. He’s kneeling over Castiel’s thighs, seemingly unbothered by the fact that his jeans are folded open and his underwear is visibly wet. His neck is littered with splotches from Castiel’s mouth, and he suspects that his own throat is in the same state. The blush is on Dean’s chest, too. 

Dean huffs, lips twitching up into a smile. “I haven’t done that since I was a teenager. Damn.” 

“Had sex?” 

“Humped.” He laughs. Castiel feels himself beginning to warm with something other than lust at the laugh this time. It’s warmer, fonder, less fiery. 

Dean swings himself off of Castiel’s lap, throwing out a hand towards the desk where he’d abandoned his glasses. “I can’t see shit,” he complains to himself, slapping along papers and pens until he locates them and slides them back onto his nose. 

His eyes settle on Castiel again, a grin on his lips as he studies his debauched form. _That_ makes heat return to Castiel’s gut, but he pushes it down. “That’s better. I can see you now.” 

The moment doesn’t last, unfortunately. Dean’s gaze lingers, tripping up and down him a couple of times, before he looks away with a sigh. His hands slide down, not to expose himself but to button his jeans again. Castiel reluctantly follows suit, even putting his shirt back on. He doubts it would be prudent to ask Dean to continue with the designs now. A quick glance down at his shoulder confirms his worries: in their haste, the single feather became smudged. 

Neither of them speak until Dean’s hovering at the sliding door, fingers around the handle. “I’ll book you in with Charlie,” he says, averting his gaze almost nervously. “I’ll get her to call you up and figure out a time to try out some designs-” 

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts. Dean snaps his mouth shut, teeth clicking together audibly. He lays a hand over his, trying to catch his eyes. “I liked your design.” 

Dean sighs. “Dude, I can’t do your tat.” 

“Why not?” Castiel is a little offended, admittedly, but it melts away when Dean finally looks up, a grin lingering on his lips. 

“‘Cause there’ll be a repeat of that, that’s why. Better that we get Charlie to do it for you.” He turns his hand over in Castiel’s, squeezes it quickly, and then drops it so he can slide open the door. “Besides, we need your number so she can call you up, and so I can steal it from the records to call you.” 

And he walks back over to the desk with a spring in his step, throwing that grin over his shoulder at Castiel. He’s helpless but to follow, a return smile on his lips. He leaves ten minutes later with an appointment with Charlie, Dean’s mobile number, and a glow in his chest. 

It’s almost like the Grace of an angel to match his wings.


End file.
